Ten Seconds of a Day
by TheShatterpoint
Summary: Each and every day in the life behind the door of 221b Baker Street is different . These are small glimpses into that life filled with murders, mysteries, violin music and cups of tea . Drabble Series .
1. of Relative Peace

**AN:** This will be a series of drabbles, each describing a small glimpse of a day. Mostly from Sherlock's and John's point of view, but there might be some additional characters in the future. The drabbles will usually be individual, though sometimes they can form a "bigger picture" of sorts. No pairings.

Beta'ed by Lohis, thank you!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

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**Ten Seconds of Relative Peace**

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, the warm colour of the flames painting the living room with its reddish glow. Rain pattered softly to the windows of 221b Baker Street and one Dr. John Watson was very very happy that on this chilly autumn Friday he could spent the evening indoors, staying warm and dry. He was lucky enough not to have caught cold from the surgery (that was filled with sniffling, coughing and sneezing patients) and he would like to keep it that way. Running around the city and getting drenched in the rain would not help at all.

So fortunately his crazy flatmate didn't have any ongoing cases that would have required spending the evening (or God forbid, _the whole night) _outside.

The spoken flatmate was currently residing in the kitchen, being suspiciously quiet. John hadn't bothered to go and check what Sherlock was up to: he was better off not knowing. If the genius broke something, he'd better fix it too. John Watson was not going to get any more gray hairs envisioning all the ways his friend's experiments could go wrong. So he continued to sit comfortably in his armchair, nursing a cup of tea and reading the day's newspaper.

Suddenly there was a small explosion in the kitchen, making the coffee table tremble a little, his teacup tinkling in alarm. A great puff of dark smoke was coming from the kitchen and someone was coughing madly.

John didn't even move his gaze from the paper; he just sighed and said with a loud voice:

"There's a brochure of a nearby furniture store on the sofa, if we are suddenly in a need of a new table."

Sherlock – still in the kitchen – ignored his words and made a sound that was half a cough, half a scoff.

"Get to the shops, John, we need more hydrogen peroxide!"

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Thank you for reading!

**AN:** I know nothing about chemistry but I tried to find a chemical Sherlock could have used, no idea if I succeeded or not. And this is the first Sherlock fanfic I have posted, I have written a couple of others too before this one and I'll hopefully post them soon too.


	2. of Companionship

Beta'ed by Lohis, thank you!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

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**Ten Seconds of Companionship**

The lights of London flashed behind the window – street lamps, display windows, commercials... all blurring together as they sped through the quiet streets of the night. There were only few people hurrying on the streets as there were not many who ventured outside during Wednesday nights, on foot or with a car so their cab was quite lonely while driving through the city.

Sherlock sat beside him in the cab, rapidly firing off facts at him about their latest case. The current mystery involved a lost testament of a recently perished wealthy businessman and his belligerent offspring and apparently their job was to find out to whom, exactly, the great fortune had been assigned to.

Things had been quiet lately and, to John's surprise, Sherlock had accepted the case (given them by the late businessman's daughter, who was adamant to not to let her "hypocritical good-for-nothing sisters get their dirty hands on Pa's money"). It was like a giant cat fight, really, but Sherlock had decided the case was better than nothing and they had been working on it the whole day (John was so getting into trouble for missing his shift again, he was sure) and now they were on their way to a flat that was, according to Sherlock, owned by a young woman who had apparently been the dead man's secret lover.

"Think about it, John, she could have hidden the will if she thought none of the children deserved it! Or the fortune could have been assigned to _her_, and one of the daughters knew about it and destroyed the testament in order to stop her from receiving it..."

Sherlock had been thinking aloud the whole drive and John listened attentively, sometimes asking questions or making suggestions and Sherlock would snort at his idiocy and lack of observation or occasionally giving him the "Oh-John-so-you're-not-a-complete-imbecile-after-a ll"-look. And John had to keep himself from grinning stupidly as it was all so_ normal_, simultaneously so mundane but extraordinary and that was his life, solving mysteries with his insane best friend.

And he wouldn't have it any other way.

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Thank you for reading!


	3. with London's Finest

Beta'ed by Lohis, thanks!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

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**Ten Seconds with London's Finest**

It's early and the air is cool and windless. The sky in the east is golden, the few steely grey clouds getting a rosy hue to their edges. The city has yet to awake and very few people have ventured outside. Sunday mornings aren't the busiest time of the week, at least not at 6AM.

The crime scene they are currently at, however, is bustling with life. Okay, maybe that was not the best choice of words and perhaps a little offensive towards the victim of the murder (a man lying face down in the middle of the parking lot), John thinks, feeling a little guilty.

The situation in front of him is half amusing, half a-bit-not-good and way too much for John to have to deal with so early in the morning. Sherlock has ceased dashing around the crime scene and peering at the body in favour of facing Anderson (who's looking a lot like some very foul smell has made its way to his nose) and voicing up every fact of the forensics investigator's private life from the last week. Sgt Donovan has already stomped her way to the other side of the crime scene. Lestrade looks like he is seriously fighting an impulse to cuff Sherlock and throw him into the holding cells for the day. Or perhaps for the whole week.

John sighs mentally and wonders what would happen if he just leaves and heads for some 24/7 coffee shop to have a cuppa. But the Detective Inspector really doesn't deserve to be left alone with the insolent genius. Greg is a good man and at the moment looks like he has decided that getting up from the bed today has been a serious mistake.

So he steps forward and taps Sherlock on the arm. The consulting detective whirls around to glare at him.

"The body, Sherlock?" John says, arching one eyebrow. "Did you figure it out yet?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replies and turns back to the corpse and begins to speak rapidly, his attention now diverted like a cat distracted with a new toy. Lestrade sends him a grateful look and John smiles.

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Thank you for reading!


	4. to the Permanent Destination

Beta'ed by Lohis, thanks!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

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**Ten Seconds to the Permanent Destination**

He doesn't want to do this.

The wind is ruffling his hair. Up here the air is chilly despite the summer. Up here, so far away from the ground and the cold hard asphalt street and the pavement. So far away from London and Life itself. So far away from John who is shouting "_Sherlock!" _on the top of his lungs, so loud that Sherlock can hear him although he has already disconnected the phone call and thrown the mobile to the roof behind him.

The wind is cold and it feels like it's clawing at him, tearing his coat and shouting angrily to his ear.

He doesn't want to do this.

But he must.

Things are not that bad, he tries to assure himself, they could be so much worse. His skull won't really crack against the pavement and his bones won't really break from the impact. He only has to jump to conclude the final act of this terrible play. And then he can slip behind the curtains and into the backstage and as a shadow of a dead man he will end the hunters hiding in the theatre, threatening the one person in the audience who matters the most.

He doesn't want to do this because although it is the only way to save the most important people in his life the audience will have to believe the play is true and the act was real and that he really took his own life.

He sighs.

John will be furious, he knows. But John angry will always be a thousand times better than John dead.

So he closes his eyes and takes a step and his foot meets nothing but air and he's falling.

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Thanks for reading!


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